


4 Vignettes With No Kissing & 1 Ex-Yacht

by captain_starcat



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Illya hates the sea, M/M, U.N.C.L.E office life, intelligence agency gossip is serious business, the vague suggestion that gayness may not have been okay in the 1960's, what even goes on in the Costume Dept?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_starcat/pseuds/captain_starcat
Summary: See title.Ft. pining, paperwork, rumors, the collective wild imagination of the Costume Department, a questionable beach, and some kissing (eventually)





	1. 1. Favorite Son

Having the identity of his soon-to-be partner weeks before he left for America was both a blessing and a curse, for it gave Illya Kuryakin time to gather intelligence—a talent which usually came with a paycheck. Gathering word on Napoleon Solo was actually very easy, Illya discovered; whether they'd met the man or not, all of U.N.C.L.E seemed eager to talk about the dashing CEA of Northwest.

The men went on and on about his field record, his Survival School scores, and his talents with the ladies; the ladies, meanwhile, most admired his ability to return from impossible missions in one piece, his ass, and, put simply, his talents with the ladies.

Not that Solo didn't also have his detractors. Illya heard complaints about Solo's ego, mutters about his lack of professionalism, whispers that his proclivities stretched well beyond the womanizing. Illya was surprised at the persistence of those whispers-- until he actually met his new partner.

As a man who often found himself attracted to other men, Illya had an eye for spotting others like himself, and as a trained spy, it was a very keen eye indeed. If Napoleon Solo only slept with women, Illya would eat his shoe.

Solo's possible homosexual leanings were certainly of no bother – after all, Solo was a very attractive man. Illya knew better than to think anything was possible between them, of course, but as he met friendly brown eyes over a handshake behind Del Floria's, he found he could live with a little hope.


	2. A Mystery Wrapped In An Enigma The Girls Go Crazy For

"Seriously, you are upset the Contessa liked me better? You are not entitled to all the women in the world, Napoleon."

"I know that, and that's what I don't get. Women throw themselves at you all the time, and you never take them up on it!"

"Aha, so you're upset she refused your rebound offer."

"Come on, Illya, when was the last time you took anybody out? Or home, for that matter?"

"You're fixating. Do you know how many other women are on this planet?"

"I'm serious, when was the last time?"

There's a brief silence, and Napoleon thinks Illya isn't going to answer.

"...Two weeks ago, in Spain."

"And when did that happen? I was with you that whole trip."

"Not the whole time. It isn't my fault you don't know the meaning of 'discretion'."

"I'll have you know I can be plenty discreet. I just don't usually need to be discreet about my love life."

"Yes, I couldn't help but notice."

Napoleon shoots Illya a look and a wadded ball of paper at his head; Illya dodges, smirking.

"So," Napoleon says with a sudden smirk of his own, "you've been sneaking around. Are you after the married ones, or the ones who don't have their daddy's permission to be out?" He's aware he's leering now. "Or both?"

"Your mind is such a tawdry place."

"I'm just saying, both situations can be a lot of trouble."

"And you would know, of course."

"Well, yes."

Illya heaves a long sigh, suddenly sounding tired. "There are other reasons for discretion, Napoleon." He doesn't meet Napoleon's eyes, busying himself with the papers on his desk.

Napoleon studies his partner for a long minute before bending to his own paperwork. He knows he's been handed another piece of the puzzle that is Illya Kuryakin, but that puzzle keeps sprouting unexpected edges and revealing new gaps. He doesn't mind. As long as there's still breath in his body to keep Illya alive, he's got time.


	3. Can't Get You Out Of My Mind

Illya heard and overheard a little too much about his partner from the ladies of UNCLE. Most of it was incidental (he had the bad habit of entering rooms very quietly), but occasionally someone would want to talk to him about Napoleon, to get Illya's opinion on some matter as partner and friend. Illya, having no desire to be helpful in such a capacity, usually amused himself by being as deliberately unhelpful as he could. The problem was, every time he heard about Napoleon's attributes, how skilled he was at kissing, at seduction, in the bedroom, Illya wondered.

He couldn't help wondering, and wanting, even when it meant Napoleon would catch him at it, and ask, smug and knowing, who Illya was thinking about. And every time, Illya would use his extensive training to keep the pink off his cheeks, and curse his partner's near-psychic abilities: Napoleon could smell problems of the heart at forty paces.

Ideally, Illya never dignified his partner with an answer, just a glare and an arch reminder that Napoleon's paperwork wasn't going to finish itself. Of course, that rarely worked, so Illya would then be forced to produce some off-putting or improbable character from an affair to supposedly be pining after, just to get Napoleon to make that face: like he couldn't decide whether to be disgusted or disappointed in Illya, but it was one of them all right, mixed with a healthy dose of skepticism that Illya was having him on. It was a good look on him, comical but not unattractive, and coincided with the glorious and hard-earned accomplishment of Napoleon Shutting Up, so Illya considered it success all around.


	4. At It Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out with love and wariness to the costume departments of the world, and the crazy, crazy people who work in them. I assume U.N.C.L.E's is no different.

Another Tuesday at the office, and Napoleon was saving their usual cafeteria table by the wall and tracking Illya moving through the lunch line. It was second nature to keep tabs on his partner in a room, and after several recent close calls in the field, the sight of that skinny blonde figure threatened by nothing more dangerous than the flirtations of the cafeteria ladies was its own kind of comfort. Across the sea of tables and heads, Illya looked like he might possibly be flirting back, so he must have had some success in the computer lab while Napoleon was in the usual endless meetings of Tuesday morning.

“Did you know you're staring at him?” one of the Wandas asked, stopping by the table with a frown and her hands full of coffee. “I ask because I'm not sure you do, and the Costume Department is making allegations about the two of you again.”

Napoleon twisted around to smile up at her. “Ah, Wanda, as radiant as ever. I'll have you know I'm actually keeping an eye on my lunch. If I don't watch Illya when he's in charge of food, items are known to go missing.”

She smiled at that, but concern remained on her face. “I'm just giving you a friendly warning, is all. If they're back to spreading that nasty rumor after you talked to them last time...”

“I appreciate the worry, but I've been assured repeatedly that no one, in or out of the Costume Department, believes in any truth to the stories they've been concocting down there. Still,” Napoleon added conspiratorially, “you'd be surprised how attached those girls are to that torrid romance they've created between Illya and me, I'd be shocked if they gave up so easily. But if you need a little convincing...” He let his eyes slide over her appreciatively. “I'd be happy to demonstrate how wrong they are. How about dinner Friday, 8 o'clock?”

Wanda looked down at him with amused tolerance, a distinct improvement. “I'll check my schedule and get back to you.”

“I eagerly await your reply,” he smiled. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to resume my surveillance. Vigilance,” he told her, eyes as sincere as he could make them, “is key.” He threw in a wink.

“Be careful, Napoleon,” Wanda said, laughing, and left to complete her coffee run.

Napoleon turned his attention back to Illya, navigating a heaping tray between tables. Apparently Costumes was at it again. He sighed. He'd have to have another talk with them about the importance of keeping their twisted sense of romance _to themselves_. Napoleon had no idea why they'd decided a homosexual soap opera relationship between himself and Illya would be romantic, but apparently it got boring down there and nobody, they'd assured him last time, actually _believed_ any of it, so he'd cut them some slack. The problem was, months later, he still couldn't get the idea of it out of his head – and somehow, the thought never seemed as off-putting as it should. In fact--

“They were out of roast beef,” Illya said, plunking the tray down in the middle of Napoleon's thoughts, “so I got you tuna instead. You won't believe what Marta was telling me over there.”

A sandwich and a distraction were exactly what he needed, and Napoleon happily accepted both. “Oh?” he asked, taking a bite. The cafeteria's tuna salad was terrible, but he almost didn't care.

“It seems the Costumes Department has not given up so easily...”

Napoleon sighed in defeat.


	5. (And Then There's The Time)

Illya comes to abruptly, coughing saltwater and bile onto sand. Sand is all he can see, sticking to skin and sodden clothes as his wet hair gets in his face. Someone is holding him up, an arm at his waist, preventing him from falling face first onto what Illya assumes is a beach, but hasn't confirmed quite yet. The arm is Napoleon's. That much is obvious, even without the lecture going on over his head, over the roaring in his ears: that Illya shouldn't scare Napoleon like this, this sort of stunt was never funny in the first place and is now downright old. Illya can't disagree.

When he feels like he's gotten most of the seawater out, Napoleon rolls him away from his mess and lets him collapse back onto—yes, it's a beach, long and sloping into anonymous cliffs. Out to sea, towards the horizon, the flaming wreck of a large yacht sends up a plume of smoke as it sinks. Illya remembers the yacht, but not much after.

"Are you hurt?" Napoleon asks, looking him over.

Illya sits up and takes inventory. His stomach feels like it took a couple punches, he's got a mild headache, and his mouth tastes of terrible, terrible ocean, but really, he's been much worse.

"I'm fine," he answers, and Napoleon must hear the honesty in his voice because the crease between his eyebrows disappears into an infectious grin of relief. Illya's not expecting the sudden, fierce hug Napoleon follows with, but he's happy to return that as well.

"Good," Napoleon says. "You had me worried."

"You're always worrying," Illya dismisses, but he can feel the smile stretching his face where his partner can't see, pleased to be alive with Napoleon yet again.

The hugging, while uncommon, isn't new. Napoleon isn't letting go yet, which is. Illya takes a minute to appreciate the comfort of their closeness, the feel of Napoleon breathing against him, and tries to ignore the sharp pressure of familiar yearning. Nevertheless: either this particular near-miss shook his partner quite badly, or— well, Illya could just be playing the optimist for once. Still...

Napoleon's arms around him, a successful mission, the world saved with both of them unharmed, and Illya comes to a sudden, wild decision. He's thought about kissing his partner for years now, and he's just working up the nerve to lean back and get it over with, maybe give it a bit of dramatic smack, pass it off as a celebratory gesture, when Napoleon pulls back a little from their embrace to look Illya in the eye.

"I can't lose you," Napoleon says, looking a little lost himself. "I don't know what I'd..." he trails off, and with a fond internal sigh ( _oh Napoleon_ ), Illya gives up and sways forward to press a small kiss to his partner's mouth.

Napoleon doesn't even let him pull back to make excuses, just surges in to grab Illya's shoulders and return the kiss with vehemence, ignoring the lingering briny sickness of Illya's mouth. For his part, Napoleon tastes of saltwater and himself, novel but not unfamiliar, and Illya, giving as good as he gets, will forgive the intrusion of sea-flavor if he can keep tasting Napoleon.

Vaguely, Illya thinks he should perhaps be more surprised at this turn of events, but he's honestly not. Vindication of a long-held theory confirmed, however, quickly loses precedence to current events, and he can't help melting a little against Napoleon's mouth. A man's strength is not infinite, and Napoleon really _is_ quite good at kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I challenged myself to write something gayer than my usual (a low bar, tbh), and this all happened. Still basically G-rated but that's fiiiiiiine


End file.
